


From moss and dirt (to talks and tales)

by MossGhost



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Immortal Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Light Angst, Minor Character Death, Platonic Cuddling, Reincarnation, Time Traveler Karl Jacobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29850024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MossGhost/pseuds/MossGhost
Summary: He’s made from clay, with lungs that breathe and a heart that beats for no reason other than he wants it to.Clay is anything but human, but that’s okay, his friends will show him what it means to be one.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Darryl Noveschosch, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Karl Jacobs, Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 159





	From moss and dirt (to talks and tales)

The earth shapes him from clay, so that’s what it names him. He is the only one like him, he realizes. He’s not like the trees, with roots that keep them in place. He can wander around freely, not bound to the river he rose from.

He’s not like the rocks and mountains, who are sturdy and unmoving. He can break apart and put himself back together.

He’s not like the wind, fleeting and swift, but he can convince it to carry him around and show him the world from above.

He’s the only one like him, but he’s not lonely. He has the trees and the mountains and the wind. Later he meets the rain and the flowers and the sun.

The animals are kind of like him, but not really. They don’t stick around for long amounts of time, they leave when it gets cold.

Clay is the only one like him for a long time. He watches rivers carve through the earth, watches mountains rise and get torn apart by the wind.

 _Why did you make me?_ he asks the world sometimes.

 _You’ll see_ , the earth tells him every time.

They come in few, always on the move, never staying for long. But then one time they stay until the trees change color and the air grows cold. They make nests of wood and disappear in them when the moon rises. They’re not like the animals.

Clay wonders what they are.

 _Humans_ , the trees whisper to him.

And the humans make something new.

It’s small at first, growing slowly until it casts a light on its surroundings, turning it orange and yellow and bright. The trees tell him to stay away, that it’s dangerous, burning. He doesn’t know what that means.

But Clay is curious, like all things are, so when the moon is high, and the humans are hidden away in their nests, he investigates. The light spits at him when he approaches, throwing fragments like fireflies in his direction.

 _What are you?_ he asks.

 _I am fire_ , it cackles. _I char and burn. What are you supposed to be?_

 _You’re warm_ , Clay says.

 _I am_ , it says, _warmer than you_.

 _I’ve never been warm_ , Clay tells it. The fire laughs.

 _You better watch out then_ , it cackles, _I could make you crack_.

Clay decides he doesn’t like fire very much.

The humans stay when the rain turns to snow, and the land freezes along with the water. Clay lets them be, with their fire and their nests. As he returns when the snow melts, he finds that the humans are still there. They stay until it freezes again, and then again, and again, and Clay knows they’re not leaving anymore.

Clay is curious, so he studies them. The way they look, their limbs, their hands, their faces. The way they talk and the words they speak, and shapes himself into something that looks like them.

But faces are delicate, and Clay is rough and unrefined.

An old tree lends him its bark, and Clay hides his unshapen features behind it. Another tree lends him its leaves, and they fold around him like a cloak.

He lingers by the edge of the forest for a full day, silently debating if he should approach them or not. In the end the choice is made for him. A child runs out when the sun sets, laughter ringing in the air as its parent chases after them. As they pick up their young and carry them home, the child’s eyes glance over to the tree line and fall on the mask. Clay and the child blink at each other for a second before the child raises their hand and waves at him. Clay tilts his head, raises his own hand – though it looks more like a claw – and returns the gesture. When the parent turns around to see what’s grasped the child’s attention, Clay is already gone.

He shows himself a few times after that. Short glimpses that never last longer than a second. The rustle of a coat, a flash of a white mask.

They leave him things by the tree the child saw him the first time. Dried fruit and nuts, a bundle of dried wheat. He doesn’t know what to do with it at first. He doesn’t have a need for them, and he doesn’t have a nest to keep them in like they do, so he feeds the fruit to the birds in the jungle and leaves the nuts in the nests of squirrels. He ties the bundle to his coat. The sounds it makes are sharper than the leaves, but he likes it.

 _They think you made them_ , the trees whisper amused. Clay laughs.

 _If only they knew_ , he says.

Five winters pass. The child grows, another is born. They leave him dried fruit and nuts and shiny rocks and flowers. He keeps the first few rocks, and weaves the flowers together in a wreath that the wind hangs on their doors.

But the earth is more than the village near the river on the edge of a pine forest, and Clay is curious, so one day he whispers a goodbye and sets off. He doesn’t mean to stay away for long, but when he returns two winters later, he finds the village empty. Flowers have started to grow between the cracked floorboards of the houses, and the air is thick with silence.

 _They asked for you_ , the flowers croon. _When the sickness came, they asked you to take it away_.

 _But I couldn’t have done anything_ , he mutters sadly.

_That didn’t stop them from hoping._

He presses his hand to the door of each house, reaching for the humans who are no longer there.

 _I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me_ , he whispers. _I’m sorry I went away. I wish I could have helped. I hope you’re warm, wherever you are._

A dried bundle of wheat rustles sharply against his coat.

A new village rises deep in the pine forest. The houses are supported by stone. There’s a structure in the middle, holding water where they fill their buckets instead of the river. Fire is only used indoors.

It’s always the children that see him first.

This time, however, when the child waddles over, its movements reminding Clay of a newborn fawn that has just figured out how to use its legs, he doesn’t flee. He crouches down so he’s not towering over the child, and reaches out with a hand, mimicking the way he’d seen humans greet each other for the first time. The child grabs it with one of its hands, all of its fingers wrapping around one of Clay’s. So small.

And Clay, for the first time ever, speaks.

‘Hello.’

The child babbles something in its own language that Clay doesn’t understand, and looks up at his face. Its other hand reaches out, splaying it out on the side of his mask. Its eyes are full of wonder, and if Clay knew how to, he would smile.

The child belongs to one of the village people, he comes to learn, but not in the traditional way.

‘I found him in a burning building, his parents didn’t make it out unfortunately,’ says the person who comes to pick up the child. A cats tail lazily swings behind them.

‘He’s very small,’ Clay says as the child loses interest in him, instead tugging at the straw hat that it’s not-really-parent wears on their head and pulling it off.

‘He is,’ the parent says. ‘Only three years old.’ They chuckle deeply as the hat slips over the child’s eyes. ‘You’ll grow into it, buddy.’ They give Clay a kind look. ‘Do you want to join us for dinner? You look like you’ve been out in the woods all day.’

Clay laughs, feels it rumble in his chest as the sound echoes through his body. ‘You could say that.’

He’s afraid that if he leaves, they’ll disappear like dust in the wind without giving him a chance to say goodbye, so he stays, much longer than he’s ever been in one place.

He learns to speak his words with air, learns to let his legs carry him places instead of the wind. He still wears the mask, now worn down and smooth.

Learns humans give themselves names, and learns those too.

Corpse and Robin. Helga and Jimmy the mayor. Jack and Bob. Miles Meminton.

Clay lives like a human for nine winters, until, one day, someone new appears. They stumble out of the woods, with strange clothes in colors almost as bright as the flowers in the meadow. They look around the village, taking in every detail of the houses as Clay watches them from a distance. They make their way around, talking to the townspeople before they spot Clay and make their way over to him. A flash of something dances on their face when they take in Clay’s mask, but it’s quickly replaced by a heartwarming smile.

‘I’m Karl, nice to meet you,’ they say. Clay shakes the hand Karl holds out and tells him the name he borrowed from a human long passed.

‘Cornelius.’

Karl is strange, but in a different way than the rest. He stands out with his bright clothes that fold in different shapes than Clay is used to. He disappears for long stretches of time, like he’s returned to the earth and then pops back up whenever he pleases. Clay briefly wonders if he’s found someone like him, but Karl is warm, Karl breathes, so he knows he isn’t.

(An unknown emotion swirls in his chest when he comes to the conclusion. He’s doesn’t know what it’s called.)

Karl also carries something with him, a book bound in dark leather with a swirl on the front that mirrors the one on his big shirt. Clay never sees him without it.

‘What’s that?’ he asks one time when he finds Karl sitting at the fountain, book opened in his lap as he flicks through the pages. Karl shuts it when Clay sits down next to him.

‘Oh, I just like to write stuff down,’ Karl answers.

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘Just things that happen, I suppose,’ Karl says, fiddling with one of his sleeves.

‘Can I see it?’ Clay doesn’t miss the way Karl looks him up and down, like he’s studying Clay instead of the other way around.

‘It’s kind of personal,’ Karl says apologetically. ‘Sorry.’

Personal. Clay doesn’t know what it means, but he senses the hesitation behind the rest of the words.

‘Okay,’ he says, and that’s that.

‘Where do you live?’ Clay asks another day when he sees Karl sitting in the same spot.

‘Oh, uhm…’ Karl hides the lower half of his face behind his book, pulling his legs up onto the stone. ‘Just… somewhere in the woods, in a house.’

‘Really?’ Clay asks, surprised. Karl nods vigorously.

‘It’s kind of far away,’ he adds, ‘so you probably shouldn’t go looking for it, I wouldn’t want you to get lost.’

‘Oh,’ Clay says. ‘Okay.’

Clay goes looking for it anyway, he doesn’t find it.

Clay doesn’t know why what happens that night, happens. Maybe the humans got bored, maybe they realized Clay wasn’t like them and got scared.

 _Intruder_ , the wood of his house groans. _Intruder_.

But before Clay realizes what’s happening, there’s already someone at his bedside. The moonlight reflects off a blade as it’s stabbed in his chest and they run.

As he lays there, left to bleed out if he’d been anything like a human, he knows it’s time to leave.

The body they bury is not his. It’s a replica he made from dirt and moss and the sap of trees. Someone gets blamed for his death, and a pyre is build.

Clay stays when the first person is consumed by flames, hidden from their eyes as he watches the child cry for his parent and is left to weep on his own when night falls.

Another body is found in the morning, the child is blamed. A pyre is build.

Fire is alive, it breathes, it grows. Fire consumes. Fire burns.

Clay doesn’t like fire.

 _Be gentle_ , he tells it. _Be warm, not burning. Deadly but not cruel_. Fire is stubborn, but Clay knows the wind and the rain, so it listens.

When the child is buried in flames, Clay sees the ghost of a smile on his face.

(The deaths continue until there’s only two people left. Their laughter echoes through an empty town. The next morning they are gone.

It’s only then that Clay realizes Karl hadn’t been there when the village tore itself apart. When he searches for Karl in the woods, he never finds him.)

The sun cradles him as he floats between the clouds, far away from the earth that suddenly feels so much colder.

 _You aren’t like them_ , the suns rays chime, _you had to leave them behind one day_.

Clay knows the words are true, he doesn’t know why they hurt.

Nature slowly claims back what’s hers, until all that’s left of the small town are the memories Clay carries with him. The land evolves, the earth spits out new creatures that come out at night and prevent other humans from wandering to this part of the world. Clay lets them roam for a while, but they don’t build, they don’t speak. Clay misses the humans, with their names and laughter and warmth. These monsters are chasing them away.

 _I miss the humans_ , he tells the earth.

 _They will be back someday_ , the earth answers.

Someday doesn’t come fast enough for Clay, so he takes matters into his own hands.

But the earth doesn’t like it when you mess with its creations, and undoes all of Clay’s changes as soon as he makes them. So he changes small things. Bones become more brittle, rotten skin becomes soft. They burn in the sun, and the ones that don’t return to the ground they were created from when morning comes.

It takes longer than Clay wants it to, but the humans return.

He finds them on the ocean, drifting on wooden vessels with large wings of cloth that the wind tugs along. The sea is wild, but the humans seem undeterred as they steer their ships over the rising waves.

 _They understand I don’t control the waves_ , the ocean tells him. _They let me carry them anyway_.

He learns games and stories, and sings with them when their voices are carried on the wind. He wonders if they hear him over their own noise, and realizes he doesn’t care. He sings at night, when the crashing waves are his only companion.

It’s during one of the clearer nights, when the stars are bright and unclouded, that he’s perched on top of the sails singing as two humans shuffle out into the open. One of them has dark hair, tied loosely into a ponytail with a white ribbon that flutters in the wind. The person next to them is tall, with black hair that turns white at the tips. Their mismatched eyes nervously glance around while their friend confidently strides over the deck, peering out over the dark ocean.

Clay watches them move around amusedly, knowing that even if they were to look directly at him they wouldn’t be able to see him. When Clay reaches the end of the song, the humans wait in anticipation for him to continue. When only silence follows, they slump their shoulders and shuffle back into the confines of the ship, disappearing from Clay’s view.

 _They call you Siren_ , the wind whistles.

 _Is that good?_ Clay asks.

 _They think it’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time_ , the wind says. Even though that isn’t an answer to Clay’s question, he decides it’s good enough.

Then, between one breath and the next, someone new appears on the deck. They wear big clothes in colors Clay hasn’t seen for a long time, clutching a leatherbound book. With a pang in his chest, Clay realizes they remind him of Karl. With his curiosity winning from his need to stay hidden, he abandons his spot on the sails and drifts down.

Clay settles himself on the edge of the railing, letting the leaves of his coat curl around his legs like the people in the drawings some humans have inked on their skin.

‘I haven’t seen you before,’ Clay muses. ‘What’s your name?’

Not-Karl jumps at his voice, clutching the book even tighter as he whips around. Not-Karl’s eyes widen when his gaze lands on Clay’s mask, and then falls to the tail that he’s lazily swinging over the edge. He’s been getting more and more the hang of how to shape his body to resemble a human. The only part he’s still unsure of is his face, so the mask is securely strapped in place.

‘I’m- I’m Karl,’ Not-Karl-but-actually-also-Karl says, his voice hushed. Clay leans his head on his hand. He hums and looks at the book Karl is holding. In the dark it’s hard to see the cover, but he’s sure he can make out a swirl on the front.

‘Well, Karl,’ he says. ‘Can you tell me a story?’

Karl sighs. ‘Maybe another time,’ he says. ‘I don’t have a lot of time tonight.’

Clay looks up at the sky. The moon is still rising, the night is young. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks hopefully.

Karl shakes his head with an apologetic smile. ‘Another time, promise.’

Clay smiles. ‘Okay.’

(The ship is caught in a storm the next day. Clay looks for Karl in the wreck. He doesn’t find him.)

_You’ve been gone for a while_ , the earth says when he returns from the sea.

 _I didn’t mean to_ , he says.

_What did you find?_

Clay moves his fingers, curls his toes, feels his body that has been taking on more and more of its surroundings ever since he’d been shaped by the earth.

 _Songs_ , he says. _Stories_.

The earth hums. _Tell me some?_

He does.

A long time passes before Clay sees humans again, but when they return to his part of the world, he doesn’t have to look hard to find them. They’re loud, with contagious laughter that makes something warm spread through his body. Instead of the people before them, they make only one house, drifting on a lake, and all live in it together. There’s only a few, three in total, but the way they interact makes it feel like there’s no empty spaces left.

There is the one with the tinted glasses in front of his eyes, with a sharp tongue and the tendency to frown before he smiles.

There’s the one who runs ahead, who borders the line between courage and recklessness as a white ribbon keeps the hair out of his eyes.

And then there’s the one who looks like he’s made up from shadow, who runs after his friends and speaks to them with both annoyance and kindness.

‘Dude, I swear,’ he overhears the one with the ribbon one day, ‘there’s someone out there in the woods, I saw them!’

‘Sapnap, you’re crazy,’ says the shadow. Clay doesn’t hear their friends response, he’s already left.

 _You told them about me_ , he accuses the trees, even though he doesn’t know how they would have when the humans can’t understand their words.

 _We haven’t_ , the trees tell him, _it’s only been you. You’re getting too close._

Clay knows he should stop, lest he makes a mistake and reveals himself to curious eyes. He’s not sure if he can handle another group of survivors fading away while they’re hopefully looking for him in the rustling of the trees or the whispers of wind.

He doesn’t.

He needs a name.

Cornelius has already been buried, twice, resting deep in the earth not to be disturbed. He considers Siren, but they belong to the ocean, to a ship caught in a storm. Clay is old, too inhuman.

He settles on something else.

He doesn’t remember where he heard the word first, or if it means what he thinks it does. If anything, the only reason he chooses it is because he likes the way it rolls of his tongue. With a name and a body, there’s no reason for him to wait, but he lingers, watching the three friends live in a way he hasn’t for a long time.

 _What are you waiting for?_ The wind whistles, _if you take too long they’ll be gone._

 _I don’t know if I should_ , he says. _Every time I tried, I made them disappear faster_.

If the wind had a face, it’d be frowning. _That’s stupid_ , it says. _When you left, they got sick. When you stayed, they sank. What’s to say that’ll happen again?_

Clay fumbles with the bundle on his belt, passing the wheat through his fingers. _I don’t know._

 _Well then_ , the wind says, _let’s find out._

Before he can ask what that means the wind has picked him up and carried him from the cover of the trees. He watches as the shadow comes into view, crouched in the meadow with their back to him as he hisses at the wind to let him go. The flowers giggle as the it drops him face first on the ground.

‘Oh my goodness, are you okay?’

When he looks up the shadow is crouched next to him, looking at him with worrying eyes as they hold out a hand. He almost forgets to speak with air as he brushes some grass off his cloak.

‘Yeah, thanks.’ He takes their hand, and lets them pull him to his feet.

‘I haven’t seen you around here before,’ the shadow says, ’what’s your name?’

‘It’s Dream,’ Clay answers. ‘My name is Dream.’

There’s no space left, but they make one for him.

‘George,’ says the one with the glasses. When he pushes them up to look at Clay with unshielded eyes, Clay thinks they’re too pretty to keep hidden away.

‘Sapnap,’ says the one with the ribbon, and he smiles in a way that makes Clay wants to copy him.

He already knows Bad’s name, but he introduces himself again to complete the three parts of their company.

He stays for a day, both asking and receiving questions he hasn’t heard before and doesn’t have answers to. His story feels empty, the way he tells it. Mostly because it’s not true, but the truth would have been too much.

They harness fire differently than the people before them, with torches and furnaces that keep it controlled. It’s not burning, or scorching, but a comfortable warmth that settles in his nonexistent bones. He supposes fire maybe isn’t that bad.

When the sun eventually sets, he brushes himself off and heads for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Bad asks as his hand touches the knob. Clay glances back.

‘I’m heading out,’ he says.

‘But it’s getting dark.’

‘You can stay here with us,’ Sapnap says. ‘We can make another bed, easy peasy.’ Clay shakes his head.

‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ When he’s met with three uncertain faces, he sighs. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, promise.’

He doesn’t really need the promise, he knows as he steps outside, he’ll be back anyway.

New people arrive over the following days, months, coming from distant lands that Clay hasn’t visited for many years. He soaks up their names, their voices. There’s Sam, Callahan and Alyssa, Ponk. They build their own homes, each different than the rest. He learns George doesn’t see colors right, learns Callahan speaks with his hands instead of his voice.

He’s not sure why he tells them. Maybe it’s because the last time he lied it ended in pyres, in flowers between wood, waves just a little too high.

‘You’re not surprised?’ he asks as his three friends smile at his confession, like they knew all along.

‘Not really,’ Bad says.

‘You’ve got this whole, mysterious thing going on,’ George adds as he waves his hand in front of his face.

‘You never sleep, or eat-’ Sapnap says as he counts on his fingers, ‘and you just kinda appeared in the woods.’

‘What’s with the mask, anyway?’ George asks. ‘If you comfortable answering that,’ he adds quickly. Clay runs his fingers over the years old wood.

‘Faces are hard,’ he says sheepishly, ‘I wasn’t sure if I got it right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bad asks. Clay holds out his hand.

‘I can… shape myself,’ he explains. As a demonstration he clenches his fist, letting the fingers melt together and shaping the lower part of his arm into curling vines. ‘I didn’t look like a human at first, so I’ve been watching and making myself look like one of you.’ He cautiously glances at the three, unsure of the response he’ll receive. They’re all staring at what was his hand, unable to tear their eyes away.

‘That’s-’ George starts.

‘That’s awesome!’ Sapnap exclaims.

‘You can just, do that?’ Bad pipes up, ‘that’s so cool!’

They’re still mesmerized by the time he changes it back to an actual hand.

‘So,’ Sapnap says, ‘does that mean you need, like, water and sunlight otherwise you shrivel up and die?’

‘Sapnap,’ Bad scolds. Sapnap gestures vaguely.

‘What? We gotta make sure we know how to take care of a plant, rock, sentient dirt-being.’

Clay laughs, loud and free, finally himself.

‘When’s the last time you slept?’

Clay glances at Bad, whose gentle hands are weaving the strands of his hair into a braid. He’s been growing it out; he likes it long, it means his friends will play with it, giving him a peaceful feeling with the soft touches.

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbles as he pulls his knees up to his chest. There’s a shout from the trees, where George and Sapnap are chasing each other around. From the roof of the house Clay has a good view of the two running, tripping over branches and stones. ‘I don’t really need to.’ Bad hums, resuming his task.

‘You should,’ he says, ‘I think it’ll be good for you.’

‘But I don’t need it,’ Clay says. He feels like a child, getting scolded by a parent even though the child believes they know better.

‘Maybe your body doesn’t,’ Bad says, ‘but your mind does.’

George yells, Sapnap laughs, they both stumble and go down in a mess of limbs.

‘I’m not even sure how to do it anymore,’ Clay mumbles. The finished braid lands against his back, and Bad’s hands settle on his shoulders. He lets Bad pull him down, laying his head on his lap.

‘Just try,’ Bad encourages. Clay sighs, but he closes his eyes. The sun is warm, Bad combs his fingers through his hair, pulling the stray strands away from his face. There’s no creaking of wood, no moonlight, no blade. He’ll be content, just laying here listening to the life around him, awake.

Somehow, his body remembers, and he slips into nothingness.

After so many days of asking, he’s finally given in to their invitation to stay the night. He didn’t think his first time sleeping in the house would be rudely interrupted.

‘Dream? Dream!’

Accompanying the voice that rouses him from his slumber is a hand on his shoulder, aggressively shaking him.

He blinks once, twice. The room is dark, apart from one torch that hangs on the wall behind him. George is hovering over him, looking distraught.

‘Hmmwhat,’ Clay mumbles as he presses his hands to his eyes, pushing against the feeling of sleep that makes them want to slip shut.

‘I- you-’ George fumbles with his words. ‘You weren’t breathing, I thought-’

‘Oh,’ Clay interrupts his panicked muttering. ‘Yeah, I- I don’t do that,’ he says sheepishly. George gives him a confused look before he swallows.

‘You… don’t breathe?’ he asks. Clay shakes his head.

‘Technically I don’t have lungs,’ he explains, placing a hand on his chest. ‘I don’t need air to live, I’m just- you know, clay.’

‘Stop,’ George tells him. Clay shuts his mouth. ‘I’m-’ George sighs, ‘I’m too tired for this shit.’

Clay laughs softly, now aware of the moon shining through the window and Sapnap’s steady breathing next to him. He’s surprised he hasn’t woken up from the commotion.

‘But… you’re okay?’ George asks genuinely. Clay nods and George deflates. Somehow he looks just as tired as Clay feels. Clay opens his arms, and George wordlessly slips into the bed next to him.

‘You’re so still,’ George mumbles.

‘You’re…’ Clay tapers off when he can’t find the words.

‘Loud?’ George guesses.

‘Yeah,’ Clay breathes. ‘You could say that.’

Clay’s sitting on one of the hills after Sapnap dragged him outside, watching how the sun dips beneath the horizon and the moon comes to take its place. The stars blink into view, high and out of reach.

‘Have you ever been up there?’ Sapnap asks as he falls backwards, laying on the grass. Clay follows his lead.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I haven’t.’

Sapnap shuffles, settling his head on Clay’s chest and closes his eyes. They lay like that for a minute, then Sapnap frowns, and pushes himself upright.

‘What’s wrong?’ Clay asks. Sapnap doesn’t respond, only places his hand on Clay’s chest. It lays still when there’s no need for it to rise and fall.

‘You don’t have a heartbeat,’ Sapnap mumbles. Clay rests his own hand over Sapnap’s. It’s warm.

‘Are people supposed to have those?’

‘Kinda, yeah,’ Sapnap says. ‘Otherwise you’re dead.’

‘What does one sound like?’ Clay asks. Sapnap takes his hand, rests it on his own chest, slightly to the side. Sapnap feels warm, so full of life Clay feels out of place. He opens his mouth to ask what he’s waiting for when something moves under his palm. A rhythmic beating, soft and steady.

‘It’s like a clock,’ Clay says breathlessly. Sapnap’s chest bounces as he laughs.

‘I suppose you could say that,’ he says.

Clay stares at his hand resting on Sapnap’s chest for a minute before he shuffles closer, angling his head down.

‘What are you doing?’ Sapnap asks fondly.

‘I want to listen,’ Clay mumbles. Sapnap chuckles, soft and gentle and lays down, coaxing Clay down until he’s laying with his head pressed to Sapnap’s chest. It takes him a moment, but once he hears the soft, _badum, badum,_ of Sapnap’s heart again, Clay relaxes. Then, between the beats, he hears something else. The heart sings, a melody so soft Clay has trouble picking it out between the creaking of bones and the flow of air in Sapnap’s lungs. A song that only Sapnap can create.

‘It’s singing,’ he whispers.

Sapnap hums. Clay feels it rumble in his throat. ‘What does it sound like?’

Clay smiles. ‘Like fire.’

A storm finds the lake one day. The water slowly rises from the downpour, and although Clay knows it’s not enough to form a wave big enough to wash away the new people he’s found, he spends the days redirecting the water to nearby rivers that lay far enough away that they won’t become a danger by the time the rain stops. When the sun peeks through the darkened clouds, he makes his way inside and shakes himself out. Sapnap tells him he looks like a dog, Clay just thinks it’s a good way to dry off.

Sapnap is there, Bad is stood in the kitchen. There’s one missing.

‘Where’s George?’ Clay asks.

‘He stayed out in the rain too long,’ Bad tells him, ‘so now he’s got a cold.’

‘A… what?’ Clay asks.

‘He’s sick,’ Sapnap explains, and immediately something heavy settles in the lower part of Clay’s torso.

‘Sick?’ He can’t help the panic in his voice.

‘He’ll be okay,’ Bad assures him. ‘He just needs to sleep and his body will do the rest.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Sure.’

They lead him upstairs. There’s a new wall in place, sectioning off a part of the room. When they turn the corner, there’s a bed, with George’s hair poking out from under the covers. Clay crouches down next to it, taking hold of the hand splayed out on the mattress. George shuffles, squinting at the light coming through the window.

‘Dream?’ he whispers. His voice is hoarse.

‘Hey,’ Clay says. George shuts his eyes again, weakly holding on to Clay’s hand.

‘Dream, come on, let’s let him sleep,’ Bad whispers. Clay nods and stands up, ready to leave, but George’s grip tightens, making him freeze on the spot.

‘Stay,’ comes out muffled, ‘please.’

There’s a village, on the edge of a pine forest, with a child that laughs and a tree with trinkets that are taken to better places. Flowers sing in a meadow that has grown in their absence, passing down a sad song that no-one will hear.

Instantly he’s back in his spot, George’s hand in his own, and he knows he’s not moving until the sickness leaves.

‘Dream?’ Sapnap asks.

‘I’m staying with him,’ he says as quietly as he can so they can still hear him.

‘Dream, you could get sick too,’ Bad says.

‘Can he?’ Sapnap asks no-one in particular. ‘He’s not really… fleshy.’

‘Still,’ Bad says, ‘I think it’s better-’

‘I’m not leaving,’ Clay cuts him off. ‘I don’t care, I’m staying here.’ Bad sighs deeply. Clay hears him shuffle around as he contemplates.

‘Fine,’ he mumbles eventually, ‘just… be careful. Call for us if you need anything.’

Clay nods, listening to the retreating footsteps that mean he’s alone with George. He sits on his knees, resting his head on his arm as a makeshift pillow while he traces circles onto the back George’s hand with his thumb.

 _They asked for you_ , his memories echo, _you didn’t come back_.

 _I’m here now_ , he tells them, he tells himself, _and I’m not leaving, I promise_.

(It takes him a few days, but George gets better. Clay doesn’t know what he would have done if he didn’t.)

Someone new has arrived, and Clay is making his way over to meet them. Sapnap is already there, talking to the newcomer with animated movements as Clay’s eyes fall on something bright and colorful, making him stop dead in his tracks. Sapnap notices him standing there, frozen, and takes the stranger by the hand to pull them to his side.

‘Karl,’ Clay says before he can stop himself. Both Sapnap and the stranger give him a surprised look.

‘I- yeah, my name’s Karl,’ Karl says. For the first time, his hands are empty. ‘How’d you know?’

Clay smiles sheepishly, averting his gaze to the swirl on Karl’s shirt. ‘You just… reminded me of someone.’

Karl makes his own house, small and build into the side of a hill. He calls it his library, even though the shelves are all empty. Over time, the library fills somehow, even though Karl never seems to carries any books with him.

‘Hey,’ Clay greets, ‘can I come in?’

‘Sure!’ Karl responds, stepping away so Clay can enter. ‘Give me a few seconds.’ He disappears between the shelves, leaving Clay alone. Books are piled up on top of each other where they don’t fit on the shelves. Clay picks up one with a dark blue cover, reading the silver colored title.

_The city of Mizu._

Footsteps approach, and Karl appears again. When his eyes fall on the book in Clay’s hands, he hastily plucks it from his fingers and puts it away.

‘Please don’t touch anything,’ he says, a little more stern than Clay is used to hear coming from him, ‘I’m still in the process of putting them all away. I don’t want things to get messed up by accident.’

‘Oh,’ Clay says, ‘yeah, okay. Sorry.’

There’s a leatherbound book in Karl’s hands, and somehow he looks exactly like when Clay met someone named Karl for the first time.

‘Where did you get that?’

Karl looks at the book, then back at Clay with a look in his eyes Clay remembers seeing only once. Then he smiles.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

He’s made from clay, with lungs that breathe and a heart that beats for no reason other than he wants it to.

Clay doesn’t need to sleep, not really, so when his friends drift off, leaving him in a world that’s too quiet, too empty, he steps out of the house and wanders around listening to the sounds of nature. His legs carry him around the place his friends have built for themselves, one that they welcomed him to with open arms.

 _It’s been a while since you’ve stopped by_ , the earth murmurs, quieter than Clay remembers.

 _I haven’t been far_ , he says.

 _You feel so distant_ , the earth tells him, ever so honest.

 _I don’t mean to_ , Clay says with honesty as well. _It’s just so different, seeing everything through their eyes._

 _You’ve grown_ , the wind whistles like it always does, _changed._

 _I have_ , Clay says, _like everything else._

The cloak around his shoulders, woven from fabric and not from leaves, rustles as the wind whirls around him. The trees seem to lean in closer as the first rays of the sun peek over the horizon a little too soon.

 _Don’t forget about us_ , they plead.

 _I won’t_ , Clay promises.

Footsteps chase the wind away as they approach from behind, brushing the dew of the blades of grass. They stop a few feet from Clay, waiting for him to turn around, which he does.

‘Karl,’ Clay says. The person nods. But it’s not the Karl who Clay was with only a few hours ago. This Karl feels out of place, like he doesn’t fit. Occupying a space that shouldn’t be filled.

‘Dream,’ Karl responds. ‘That’s the name you have now, right?’

‘It is.’

Karl smiles at him, bright and warm, and moves to stand next to Clay to look out over the land. ‘Wow,’ he breathes, ‘it’s so small.’

‘Everything starts out small,’ Clay says as he follows Karl’s gaze, trailing over every little thing that has been shaped by human hands.

‘Did you start out small?’ Karl asks, an amused glint in his eyes.

‘The smallest,’ Clay says. Karl chuckles, trailing his fingers over the book in his hands.

‘It took me a while to figure out you were the same each time,’ he confesses, ‘and not just someone who managed to get reincarnated in every time I stopped by.’

‘Reincarnated?’ Clay echoes. Even after so many years there still are words he doesn’t know, apparently.

‘It’s this whole concept that when you die you get reborn into a new life as a new version of yourself,’ Karl explains, ‘or something like that.’

‘What about you?’ Clay asks, ‘are you-’ Karl shakes his head.

‘No, every me you’ve seen is this one.’

‘But you’re different each time,’ Clay says. ‘Older, younger, time doesn’t flow right when it comes to you.’

‘It does,’ Karl says, ‘I just don’t move with the flow of time.’ When Clay shoots him a confused look, Karl continues. ‘You’re like a river,’ he says, ‘I’m more like… a mole.’

‘A mole?’ Clay repeats with a laugh.

‘Poking up whenever it’s most convenient,’ Karl smiles.

‘They miss you, you know? Every time you leave.’

‘I know,’ Karl says, ‘I miss them too.’

‘You have to remember to live,’ Clay tells him. ‘Even moles know how to appreciate the present.’

‘You’ve already told me that,’ Karl says, and catches himself, ‘or you will, never mind, I didn’t say anything.’

Clay laughs, and quietly makes a promise that the Karl who’s still curled up in bed, happily sleeping as his future memories are being created, will spend more time chasing laughter with friends than whispers of time.

‘Any other advise from the future?’ he asks as he watches Karl spin a clock in his hands, whisps of something otherworldly curling like fire in the air.

‘None I can give you right now,’ Karl says, ‘maybe another time.’ The clock stills, and a tear appears in the space behind him, like the air has been ripped like a piece of paper. ‘Although,’ Karl mumbles, ‘I can tell you to take care of yourself. And to remember to feel, and to laugh, and do your best to make others as happy as you can make yourself.’ He looks directly at Clay. ‘Remember to love.’

‘Love.’ Clay tastes the word in his mouth, lets it roll of his tongue. ‘How do I do that?’

Karl smiles, soft and bright and knowing. ‘I think you already know.’


End file.
